Quietly
by NotMarge
Summary: Their bond has always been important to him. Never more so than now. He doesn't know what he'd do without her. Set in Season 2 premiere.


I do not own Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.

But Son of Coul is the _man_. And Agent May is the _woman_.

Quietly

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><p>She's always been his lifeline.<p>

For as long as he's known her.

She's supported him, encouraged him, and, when required, argued him into the right direction.

He's grateful for her presence, her friendship.

He's grateful for _her_.

Even now, especially now, as he struggles and flounders in his 'condition'.

Brain-damaged.

Him.

Once a genius.

Now he feels like an idiot.

They say he's doing much better. They say he's improving.

But he can see it in their eyes.

The pity. The sadness.

Like he's dead and they're mourning him.

Or his intelligence rather.

And she, she has those same eyes sometimes.

They're still beautiful and deep and wise.

But they carry a heavy burden now.

And he knows it's him.

And he _hates_ it.

What he's done to her.

Making her sad. Making her hover. Making her worry.

But he's grateful too.

Even as those amazing eyes reach out for him in his . . . his . . .

_Distress. Yes, perhaps a little, but you're doing much better, Fitz. It just takes time. _

He smiles thankfully at her.

A rock, that's what she is.

Beautiful. Strong. Resilient. His brilliant, angelic rock.

Wait, that's not a good and proper comparison. Well, he won't mention it then. Not until he comes up with a better one.

The point _is_, he's so lucky to have her friendship to buoy him up now.

Without it, he doesn't have the slightest idea what he'd do.

She reaches out and takes his hand, squeezing comfortingly. He gratefully returns the simple, reassuring touch.

Once upon a time, he thought he might be falling in love with her.

But that had been silly.

She's Jemma.

_Jemma_.

They're so much more than silly, love-struck kittens mewling over each other.

Though she does represent everything good he has ever believed about life.

They are, had been, once were, completely comfortable together.

Working in perfect sy . . . sy . . .

_Synchrony? Yes, we do make a rather brilliant team, don't we?_

Absolutely.

Even when at odds. They had always worked it out.

Like a well-oiled machine. Like two parts of the same whole.

Like _them_.

It was what they did.

What they've done.

What they _do_.

She knows everything important about him.

Everything except how he feels, used to feel, might have felt, about her.

Because there has never been time.

There has only ever been the next mission.

The next crisis.

The next problem needing their brilliant solutions.

Until they had plunged into the forbidding, murky waters of the deep.

Where all life had first begun.

And he emerged alive only due to her.

He had tried to sacrifice himself to save her.

But in the end she had refused to accept his forfeit and brought him back anyway.

Him.

Him now less than what he had first been.

And now he can't relay all that to her. His once developing feelings. Not now. Not like this.

It would be an abomination, a cruel mockery of their friendship, their bond.

He's been trying to find it again.

What he's lost.

He reaches out. Time and again, stretches out desperately for it.

He can sense it even now, lurking there in the back of his mind. Hiding away in the shadows, watching him stubbornly, disobediently from the gloom.

He can _feel_ it.

The way he used to be. Even if he can't quite touch it or see it, it's there.

And he cannot get to it.

He cannot retrieve it.

He cannot _think_.

Not well. Not easily. Not properly.

But he _is_ trying.

So very hard.

And she _is_ helping.

Just by being at his side.

She never seems to relinquish her steady watchfulness, her constant support.

She is a constant gardener of his mind, of his sanity.

He wonders at her dedication.

Wonders if he could provide the same level of as . . . as. . .

_Assiduousness?_

Yes, assiduousness, thank you, if the roles were reversed.

_Yes, I'm sure you would, Fitz._

Yes, he likes to think he would. He likes to hope.

She should rest, eat something, relax.

He keeps meaning to tell her.

But then it slips his mind.

Like everything else.

But then he can turn again and she's there.

Or simply reach back over his shoulder. To where her warm, gentle hand so often drapes.

He does it again now.

And takes comfort in her simple touch.

"I'm glad you're here, Jemma," he whispers gratefully.

She squeezes his shoulder, just a little.

_Me too, Fitz._

He thinks about everything he'd once wanted to tell her. Just so she would know.

But he can't find the words.

They evaporate into mist that swirls and smokes just out of his reach.

There are so many important words he no longer possesses. They hide away just beyond his vision and snicker at his pain, his frustration, his humiliation.

But she catches them, all those little mischievous words. Catches them all like wild dragonflies in a net as they try to fly far away from him. Catches them and traps them in a secret box with a million little compartments.

And when he needs them and can't grab hold of their flittering, random flight patterns, she finds just the right one and brings it out. Gently, graciously, hands it to him like a gift, a refreshing drought of water in the dry, disparaging despairing desert of his mind.

He would be going quietly crazy at this point if not for her.

He looks for her again.

And she's there. Like always.

He starts to smile but falters as her image shimmers.

Only for a split second.

And he frowns.

Passes a hand over his eyes. Must be late. He forgets to sleep sometimes until she or one of the others reminds him.

Glances up again.

Yes, she's still there.

"You're a good friend, Jemma."

And she smiles.

So beautifully.

So sadly.

And does not respond.

Maybe she's tired too.

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><p><strong>Nope, I never saw the twist coming. Not a bit. Blind as a bat, me. Then it hit me like a mack truck crossing a busy intersection. And once I stopped crying <strong>_**blood **_**(figuratively speaking, for those of you who don't know yet that I'm a fun-loving, overdramatic smart aleck), I wrote this for my poor, sweet Fitz.**

**Plus FitzSimmons has always reminded me of Abby and Conner from BBC's 'Primeval'. Only better, 'cause she's not a raging witch and he's not a whipped puppy. **

**Thanks very much to KESwriter, HelloILikeIt, CrimeShowsNumber1Fan, TheLateNightStoryteller, ChiefPam, mmothballs, and my mystery guest for graciously reviewing. **

**Thanks to fyd818, TheManFromMars, Griffenclaw's Princess, Wholocked221, Pgrr, TheEquestrianidiot 2.0, happypandabear, Cadyn Brewer-Sidelia Miller, and Hyper-Blossom Z for adding your support as well.**

**Everybody appreciates feedback. Leave a review if you like.**


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